


This Too Shall Pass

by apolesen



Series: Adventures in Cardassian medicine [4]
Category: Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Disabled Character, M/M, Polyamory, Post-A Stitch in Time - Andrew Robinson, Post-Canon Cardassia, Pre-The Calling, Story: The Calling - Andrew Robinson, epidemic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23483272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolesen/pseuds/apolesen
Summary: After a long day on the frontlines of an epidemic, Parmak and Bashir return to Garak's garden shed.
Relationships: Elim Garak/Kelas Parmak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: Adventures in Cardassian medicine [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690147
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48





	This Too Shall Pass

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to do some sublimating in the face of the current pandemic. This is the result. 
> 
> Set between A Stitch in Time and The Calling (where a plague outbreak is mentioned), only with added Bashir. 
> 
> Take care of yourselves and each other and be kind of any healthcare workers you know (including if that is yourself). <3
> 
> TW: Post-Fire Cardassia, discussion of outbreaks of infectious diseases, mention of lack of resources.

It was late – far later than it should have been. Bashir wanted to rub his eyes very badly, but knew better. He wondered if water had soaked into his shoe or if the blisters on his foot had started to bleed again. Beside him, Parmak walked so slowly Bashir had to stop completely in between steps to not outpace him. 

‘Do you want to rest?’ 

Parmak shook his head. 

‘We’re almost there.’ They pushed on. The sight of the ramshackle shed was so welcome Bashir thought he might cry. When they stopped by the door to disinfect their hands, he could feel the smell of cooking. 

‘Garak!’ he called, knocking with his elbow. The door opened. Garak’s face, already in a frown, fell. 

‘What in the name of the ancestors happened to you?’ He stepped aside to let them enter. 

‘It’s been a rough day,’ Bashir said. 

‘But your faces!’ Garak looked from Bashir to Parmak. 

‘It’s the protective equipment,’ Parmak said wearily. He sat down on an upturned crate that doubled as a chair and stretched out his legs with effort. Garak was still staring at them both. Bashir felt he could not blame them. They both had bruises running over the bridges of their noses and across their cheeks where their masks had been anchored, and an indentation on their forehead where their visors had rested. Bashir had started to feel jealous of his Cardassian colleague’s facial ridges, but at least he had a smoother hairline that made it easier to cover his hair. What he would not give for just one biobed with a sterile field! 

Garak stood, uncharacteristically lost for words. Bashir took down the bowls and approached the pot on the portable stove. 

‘Is this ready?’ 

Garak came to life, taking the bowls from him. 

‘Let me.’ 

He was too tired to argue. He sat down on the floor, and was tempted for a moment to just lie down flat. Garak handed him a bowl full of soup, which put a stop to that idea. He gave Parmak a bowl too, making sure he had a good grip of it before letting go. Then he sat down himself, looking at the two of them. 

‘How is it?’ he asked finally. 

Parmak made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a snort. 

‘It’s bad,’ Bashir said. 

‘We’re overrun,’ Parmak added. 

‘If I could get ten minutes with a good microscope, I could probably identify what this is,’ Bashir said, ‘but there isn’t ten minutes. Or a good microscope, for that matter.’ 

Garak bowed his head, looking rather like he wished he had not asked. 

‘Are you in danger?’ he asked. 

‘I might not be,’ Bashir said. ‘This virus might not even be compatible with mammalian physiology.’ Besides, his youth and augmentation made him more resilient. 

Garak looked at Parmak. 

‘And you?’ 

Parmak kept eating his soup, ignoring the question. Garak and Bashir exchanged a look, both thinking the same thing. Neither spoke. They knew what the answer would be: either a dry, slightly resigned response about the impossibility of avoiding risk, or, worse, anger at this questioning of his ability to help. Bashir did not doubt Parmak’s dedication or competence, but the fact remained that he was old and not in the best of health. 

‘Well?’ Garak said. 

‘We take precautions,’ Parmak said. ‘They are not a hundred percent certain, of course. But these people need care and treatment.’ 

‘What if it’s too late?’ Garak asked. ‘If this plague is as deadly as they say, you may have caused your own deaths without being able to save people.’ 

‘People do survive it,’ Bashir said. ‘We see many who do. It’s just that many others don’t, but people stand a better chance if they get help.’

Garak let out a long breath, clearly out of things to say. Bashir knew that weariness well. Things had been looking up, after all. Just half a year ago, reconstruction had been progressing and a rudimentary government had been set up. There was even a head of state, whom both Garak and Parmak praised. Then it had all gone wrong. Alon Ghemor had been assassinated, a civil war had broken out, and then the plague came. That was the closest translation, as far as Bashir knew, to the Cardassian word _tharlin_. It felt like they were back where they had been in the months just after the Fire. 

‘How can I help?’ Garak asked. The question took Bashir by surprise. Parmak too looked startled. ‘Do you need volunteers at the hospital?’ 

‘No,’ Parmak said. ‘Under no circumstances.’ 

‘The fewer people get ill, the better,’ Bashir explained. ‘The best way to do that is to stay away from people who are already ill. People in general, really.’ 

‘I can’t stay here all day,’ Garak said. ‘It will drive me mad.’ 

‘Just steer clear of crowds,’ Parmak said drily. ‘And wash your hands.’ 

None of them articulated what they both knew: that living this close together was dangerous. There was no reason to impart this information – there was no way of changing their living-situation. While at the hospital, they had discussed whether they should stay there and let Garak have the shed to himself for the duration of the crisis, but they had both been reluctant. Loneliness and enclosed spaces would not be good for Garak, and being constantly half on duty would not be good for Parmak and Bashir. Had things been different – proper infrastructure and a proper home – they would have been able to maintain some distance from one another, but that was not the situation they were in. 

‘What we need is equipment,’ Bashir said. ‘Starfleet is sending that, but it’s taking time. But it’ll come eventually.’

Once that came, things would look very different. Antiviral drugs, antibody testing, vaccines – those would be within reach with Starfleet technology, but now they seemed like little more than pipe dreams. 

As if sensing Bashir’s thoughts, Parmak sighed. He had finished his soup now and was holding the bowl between both hands. His eyes were drifting shut. Bashir thought of the sensations in his own body – aching feet, sore back, throbbing bruises on his face, not to mention the brain-fog of exhaustion – and knew Parmak must feel many times worse. When Garak took the bowl from him, Bashir saw an indentation across Parmak’s palm from his walking-stick. He must have been leaning on it heavily to leave that kind of mark, more reminiscent of a rower’s callous than anything else. Bashir got to his feet and collected the bed-rolls. Parmak made an effort to stand up, but Bashir gestured to him to stay. He sank back onto the crate, too tired to even argue. 

As Bashir prepared the bedding, Garak went over to Parmak and spoke to him, so quietly that Bashir did not catch it. He saw Parmak nod and turn so his back was towards Garak. Retrieving a comb from his pocket, Garak started to work on the tangled braid. Parmak leaned his cheek against his fist, already half asleep. Quickly, Bashir finished his task. 

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s sleep.’ 

Garak helped Parmak to his feet and they both walked the short distance to the bedrolls. They look their positions - Bashir on the left, Parmak on the right, and Garak in the middle. Garak turned to his side and put an arm around Parmak. Bashir moved closer to him and put his forehead against Garak’s neck, blessedly cool in the Cardassian heat. 

‘We’re going to be okay,’ he whispered, although he was not sure he heard him. He said it to himself as much as to Garak. They would be okay – somehow, eventually. This might feel like the end of the world, but they had witnessed the end of the world already and had survived it. Sentient life was nothing if not resilient.


End file.
